


Beautiful Monsters

by Aerowax26



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Frankenstein, Bad Science, Blood and Gore, Corpses, Creator Complex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fear Play, Foot Fetish, Hero Complex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Mortuaries, Murder, Needles, Non-Consensual Hand Jobs, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Non-Sexual Bondage, Obsession, Other, Ownership, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Punishment, Repressed Memories, Resurrection, Revenge, Scars, Stalking, Surgical stitches, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 12:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13704843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerowax26/pseuds/Aerowax26
Summary: After a series of failed experiments, Dr. Ardyn Izunia is desperate to prove his theory that death is not permanent.  The beautiful, freckled boy on his slab could be the key to becoming the master of life and death, if only the doctor can get him breathing again.Meanwhile, Noctis deals with an impending arranged marriage, a cumbersome legal negotiation with his unhinged, death-obsessed uncle, and a curious longing for a simpler, less complicated life.Across town, Inspector Ignis Scientia investigates both a series of brutal murders and the mysterious disappearance of a close friend's little sister. Are these things unrelated, or is something more sinister going on?A Frankenstein AU that literally no one asked for.





	1. Prologue: Unknown Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't sleep last night so I started writing. Banged out an outline and a prologue. I'm kind of fascinated with Frankenstein in all it's various incarnations, so this was probably inevitable. 
> 
> The other story's for therapy. This one's just for fun. But please read the tags. I probably won't get too graphic with the non-con, but there'll be some smutty smut smut later. Mostly because I have a mighty need to write Gladnis porn. Heh. This is also a really good excuse to write Iggy wearing the monocle.
> 
> (un) happy reading!

The specimen was perfect. Young, strong, and healthy.

At least until he met his unfortunate end on a battlefield, young, strong and healthy soldiers of his ilk being little more than cannon fodder. His true name unknown, the boy was but one of many hostiles that perished in the most recent conflict between Lucis and the Empire. Slated for burial in an unmarked grave, his body was not missed.

A pity, really. In life, this boy must have been quite beautiful. In death, he was still a sight to behold, but in a much different way. The pale, freckled body on the slab appeared ethereal under the surgical lighting, the wounds that ended his life stitched postmortem and not unlike a ghastly work of modern art.

At least his face was spared major damage. Save the abrasion across the bridge of his nose and the broken bone beneath it, it remained as lovely and innocent as a choir boy.

Ardyn Izunia stood over the body and brushed a hand down the boy's chest, over the autopsy incision and down to the concave hollow of his stomach, let it wander over a prominent hip bone and down a lean but muscular thigh. Skin, cold to the touch, that would soon warm and flush with life. Ardyn could scarcely wait, but respect must be paid to the sacrifice this boy would make for the sake of science, and patience was essential.

He lifted one of the boy's eyelids and peered at the dark blue, death-clouded iris. An unusual color, one Ardyn was eager to see without the shroud of death muddying the hue.

This one was special. He was not the first nameless young corpse to rest upon the slab, but Ardyn believed he would be the first successful resurrection to take place here. The Gods knew, the others proved abysmal failures. He tried nine times before his efforts produced so much as a heartbeat.

The first lived for only a moment. A fleeting, fluttering of muscle, a rattling of breath, and then the specimen perished. The next two lived a couple of minutes. A third for an hour. The fourth, well, best not to think of that one.

He would be number thirteen. If he lived, he would be a true miracle. Dr. Ardyn Izunia could become master of life and death, the possibility of immortality in his hands, and thus he would prove himself the healer no one else believed him to be. They all thought him a madman. Perhaps he was. Perhaps it took a certain madness to fuel a genius of this magnitude.

To the boy's forehead and chest, Ardyn attached electrodes. He brushed a hand through feathery soft layers of pale blond hair, a fingertip over a full bottom lip tinged blue.

“Are you ready to live again, sweet boy?”

He leaned down and pressed a reverent, soft kiss to those bloodless but pliant lips. He imagined it as something of a blessing he bestowed upon the boy, a kiss of life, to wake the sleeping beauty.

Ardyn lifted the body and carried it to a bath of fluid, a mixture of nutrients and chemicals that would not only protect this precious corpse, but also revive it. As he lowered the boy into the substance, he took one last look at that face and imagined himself a creator, perhaps even a God.

If he lived, the boy would be something entirely new. Something the world had not yet seen. A new era was truly upon them, and Ardyn held all the power in his humble hands.

He let the body rest in the bath and turned to the machine behind him with a flourish and a swish of his robes. He switched on the condenser and checked the levels, adjusted them down just a hair below his original settings and waited for the machine to warm up.

It was an eternity before the needle on the display registered a full charge. Ardyn flipped the switch and turned to his boy as electricity, as bright and hot as lightning, coursed through the wires overhead and down into the bath. Beneath the surface, the body thrashed, arms and legs flailed, the head jerked back, and the mouth opened in a silent scream.

Ardyn could hardly stand the anticipation but counted down the seconds, calmed himself, and switched off the current.

He approached the bath and held his breath. The fluid stilled and the body lay suspended, motionless, but the boy's eyes were now open and peered emptily at the ceiling above, wide but unblinking.

“No. I thought for sure,” Ardyn murmured. “You must live. You must...”

One more try. He had one more shot to get this right. Beyond that, there was no point. He'd learned that the hard way.

He turned his back and reached for the switch. Behind him, fluid sloshed and he heard a sharp inhalation of breath, a whimper.

Ardyn spun around, his heart thundering and the beginnings of elation building in his heart. The boy coughed until he expelled fluid from his lungs, then began to gasp. He banged his hands blindly along the edge of the bath and his legs worked against the bottom until he pushed himself back against the metal wall. He peered around in wild panic, gasping for breath, his once-still chest heaving and his nostrils flaring.

Those eyes. Those wild eyes were such an intriguing shade of blue. The hue so intense, the color might be called cobalt but for the hints of violet.

“Incredible,” Ardyn murmured and drew closer. "Thirteen must be my lucky number."

Color flooded into Thirteen's pale cheeks, that soft mouth no longer the blue of death but a delicious pale pink, and his wet skin gleamed in the surgical lighting.

Ardyn approached the bath and knelt beside it. Thirteen's head whipped toward him in alarm and he backed as far away as the bath would allow, staring with those wide, mesmerizing eyes.

Already, Ardyn could tell this one stood a chance. Special, indeed.

All but one of the others had woken from death's slumber lethargic, their brain function compromised, and responded slowly to stimuli. This one, though confused, seemed ready for a fight, and the fire in his eyes spoke of at least some animal intelligence and an instinct for self-preservation. How intelligent he may be was yet to be determined, but all the signs pointed toward a possible success.

“It's all right,” Ardyn said. “I won't hurt you.”

Thirteen let out a puff of breath and blinked at Ardyn with an adorable pout.

“Aren't you precious,” Ardyn said. “Can you understand me?”

The boy blinked once, swallowed, then nodded.

“Good,” Ardyn said. “Do you know who I am?”

He appeared to consider the question before he shook his head no.

“I am Dr. Ardyn Izunia,” he said. “And I am your creator.”


	2. Small Deaths

Ignis Scientia had seen a lot of grisly crime scenes in his short tenure as Insomia's Chief Homicide Inspector. Part of the job, after all, but none quite like this. Most were cut and dry. This one was not.

The victim lay face down on the floor, naked, his palms nailed to the floor in mock crucifixion, his body a mess of bruises and puncture wounds. The scent of blood and urine hung heavy in the air. Beneath that, a barely detectable but heady perfume, something soft and feminine and familiar he couldn't quite put his finger on. Floral and sweet, yet not.

Likely, the victim invited a young woman into his apartment at some point during the evening. The rumpled bedsheets suggested a visitor of the romantic variety. A lover or a prostitute.

If the latter proved the case, perhaps the victim failed to pay up or mistreated the lady, and had run afoul of her handler.

An easy explanation, yet one that Ignis was reluctant to accept. There was no sign of a struggle, and it was well known the victim's preferences leaned toward the masculine. Last he heard, the victim was not the sort who needed to pay for it.

In his notebook, Ignis hastily sketched the scene. He was by no means an artist, and his sketch was by no means exact, but a crude map was often a helpful reminder of the placement of the body, furniture, and key evidence after the fact.

He paused to look down at the body once more.

This was no heat of the moment crime. It had been carefully staged. At least, up until the point where the perpetrator ended the victim's life. At that point, he must have lost all control. Deep puncture wounds dotted the victim's chest. Twenty. Perhaps twenty-five. Their placement, random, save the one above the heart.

That one was likely the first, and probably ended the victim's life in an instant, considering how little blood there was. The rest were recreational.

“Ice pick?” Marshal Cor Leonis asked.

“Perhaps,” Ignis agreed. He gestured to the victim's hands. “Or a spare railroad tie.”

“We get a name yet?”

“Loqi Tummelt.”

Cor crossed his arms over his chest and peered down at the body.

“The steam engine Tummelt, or just a coincidence?”

“This would be his son,” Ignis said. “Heir to the business and fortune. Reputed to be somewhat arrogant and aggressive in polite company.”

That was putting it mildly. Tummelt's reputation for starting petty fights among his peers was legend and he was often at odds with his father, Loqi Tummelt Sr. over personal finances, his fondness for the Empire's ethics, his questionable lifestyle, and his frequent blow-ups in public over trivial matters.

“Heard he's a Niff sympathizer,” Cor said. “I'd say he pissed someone off, but this looks a lot like the last one.”

“So it does,” Ignis agreed.

The last one had been nailed to the wall in a hotel in the pleasure district. His throat cut. Two glasses of spirits on the table. A single debased coin, face-down beside the bottle. No one heard or saw a thing.

How did one subdue a grown man, nail him to the wall, and disembowel him in a place like that without anyone hearing at least a scream or two?

This scene also begged that question. How had the neighbors heard nothing?

“Inspector? We've got som'ing over 'ere,” Wedge said. “Come 'ave a look?”

Ignis crossed the room to the bed, where Wedge held something with a small pair of tweezers.

A hair.

Ignis put on his monocle and examined this small bit of evidence with some interest. The hair appeared dark brown or black and was perhaps two inches long. Far too dark and coarse to belong to Tummelt.

“Collect it,” Ignis said. “Was there anything else?”

Wedge pointed to the nightstand.

A debased coin. Face-down.

“Marshal,” Ignis said and turned to Cor. “I do believe we're dealing with a serial killer.”

* * *

 Noctis Lucis Caelum paced beside the window of the parlor of his family home, sweating beneath his formal jacket, his hands hot inside his gloves. He was only twenty, for God's sake. Far too young for marriage, and far too wrapped up in his own inner turmoil to be a good husband, even if his intended was someone he was well acquainted with.

No one asked him how he felt, and no one cared.

It was duty, after all. A chance to pay back the debt his father owed. A merger of the Caelum's good name and the Fleuret fortune was necessary to keep Noctis out of the poor house. At this point, he stood to inherit nothing after his father's failed investment in Tummelt Power's war machines all but bankrupted them. He put the majority of his fortune on the line for an invention that promised a quick end to the war and delivered nothing.

With Lucis at war with the Empire, what remained of their riches dwindled, as his father promised continued financial support to the Lucian army. That left their coffers bare and the Caelum's hanging on by a thread.

Noctis didn't blame his father. He wasn't the only one who fell for it, and so far, they'd been lucky to remain in good standing in the community.

Perhaps the Fleuret fortune was the answer to all their problems, but for Noctis, it felt desperate. This endless war would bleed everyone dry.

The door of the parlor opened and Noctis stopped pacing. He softened at the sight of his childhood friend, a vision in white lace, then stiffened as her brother Ravus joined her.

“Good day, Noctis,” Luna greeted.

“Good day to you,” he returned and offered a respectful bow. He nodded to the unexpected guest. “Ravus.”

Ravus sneered and wrapped a possessive hand around his sister's arm.

“You're not going to invite us to sit?”

Noctis held out a hand and gestured at the plush couches. “Please.”

He'd adored Luna since he was a boy, for her friendship and support in a time when he had little of either, but his feelings were less romantic than they were of kinship and respect. Seeing her now, knowing that they would be married within the year for the sake of money brought a blush of shame to his pale cheeks. He should be proud to have a wife of such beauty and good breeding, but all he could feel was the heavy burden of obligation.

Ravus claimed the only chair and glared at Noctis expectantly. Noctis ignored him as Luna crossed the space between them and adjusted the tie at his throat.

“You look quite dapper today,” she said with a smile. “Though it appears you're positively melting in this heat.”

Noctis brushed away the sweat from his brow, offered an embarrassed smile and gently took her hand away from the tie.

“It's hot in here,” he said stupidly. “You look... lovely.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” Ravus interjected. “We do have things to discuss and I'd prefer not to spend the whole day on formalities.”

“Simmer down, Ravus,” Luna said lightly. “There's no need to rush.”

Noctis politely waited for Luna to be seated before he joined her on the couch. She clasped his hand and turned to him.

“I know that this is all very unexpected,” she said, “and you must have reservations about marrying an opinionated old maid like me -”

“You're not old, Luna,” Noctis said with a smile. “It's... the reasons for it I'm worried about.”

“I understand,” she said. “However, let's leave the business end of things between me and your father.”

“I feel like we're using you.”

Ravus snorted. Luna's glare had him squirming in his chair until he looked away. Noctis wondered why Ravus bothered to come.

Right. An unmarried woman of good breeding wasn't supposed to visit men without an escort. Their father passed away years ago, leaving Ravus her only option.

Stupid rules. It wasn't like Noctis would drag her off and ravish her if left unsupervised. That was the last thing on his mind.

Luna sighed and squeezed his hand.

“You're doing me the favor,” she said. “I'm far too old now to marry anything but a widower and to be quite honest, those that have expressed interest have no interest at all in me besides money and producing heirs. At least I can say I'm fond of you.”

“You haven't even offered us refreshments,” Ravus scoffed. “Is this the sort of husband you plan to be? Inept and neglectful?”

“Ravus,” Luna scolded.

Noctis struggled with social convention. He hated the formality and the ceremony and all the pomp and circumstance that went along with visits.

“Would you... like something?” Noctis asked.

“No, but I expected you to at least extend the offer,” Ravus snapped.

“There's no need to be rude, Ravus,” Luna said. “You'll survive without tea and biscuits.”

Noctis wondered why his father wasn't here. He was the negotiator and the planner, not Noctis, who had little to no interest in investments or ventures, or really much of anything besides parlor games, if he was being honest.

He mind drifted while Luna discussed the preliminary plans for the wedding. He thought of how they used to hide gifts and letters for each other when he'd visit their estate in Tenebrae. Then he thought of how Ravus always refused to join in their play, even when a younger and far braver Noctis reached out to invite him.

Ravus never did and instead, stood back and judged while Noctis climbed trees and ran barefoot through streams with Luna. He frowned at their laughter and inside jokes as though he'd been left out.

_You've never liked me. I tried to like you._

“Noctis, are you listening?” Luna asked.

“Yeah. Sure,” he said. “Sylleblossoms work for me.”

“And the menu?”

“Whatever you want,” he said.

_I'm just along for the ride._

* * *

 Gladiolus Amicitia waited in Inspector Ignis Scientia's office for over an hour. All they would tell him was that he and the Marshal were out and no one knew how soon they would return.

That was fine. Gladio would wait all day if he had to. It was important.

He examined a bookshelf full of books on anatomy, autopsy, crime, and other gruesome topics until thoughts of his missing sister intruded, and a heavy ball of dread settled in his stomach. Something bad happened to her. He was sure of it.

It wasn't like Iris to take off for long. She was spirited and opinionated, willful and sometimes wild, but even at her worst, she might storm out in a rage, only to return a few hours later, calm and contrite. Not once had she stayed out all night, let alone stay gone for whole three months.

Gladio worried the brim of his hat in his hands and let his eyes drift over the dusty landscapes on the walls. One, an ocean scene at night. The other, a depiction of Hell, wretched souls burning in agony as daemons frolicked amidst the flames. Not the first time he'd pondered this particular piece, and not the first time it seemed an unfit choice for his old chum Ignis Scientia.

“Gladio,” Ignis said as he strolled into the office. “Did we have an appointment for lunch?”

“No,” Gladio said. He stood and clutched the hat with both of his hands. “I have a favor to ask.”

Ignis dropped his satchel beside the desk, removed his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair, and rolled up his sleeves. Gladio's train of thought derailed for a moment, distracted by pale, strong forearms and long, slender hands encased in black leather.

“Can I offer you some coffee?” Ignis asked. “Perhaps some tea?”

“Tea sounds nice,” Gladio said.

Ignis called out to his secretary. “Do be a dear and bring Mr. Amicitia a cuppa. Coffee for me please, but only if it's fresh.”

“Right away, inspector,” she said.

Ignis peeled off his gloves and folded them neatly beside the blotter on the desk. He eased into the chair as the secretary returned with the refreshments.

“Sugar?” she asked.

“No thank you, ma'am.”

“Close the door on your way out, Delia,” Ignis said. He waited until the door was shut before he spoke again. “How goes the search for Iris?”

Gladio cleared his throat. “That's actually why I'm here. I wanted to ask if you might be able to help me find her.”

Ignis blinked and leaned back in his chair. He templed his hands under his chin and peered back at Gladio, his expression cold and unreadable.

“You are aware I investigate homicides.”

“Yeah, I know, Iggy,” Gladio said testily. “But those clowns they got on her case think she ran off with man.”

“Perhaps she did,” Ignis said. “She is fifteen, after all. I'm sure you remember well the trials of puberty. And she's rather impulsive, as I recall. It's not outside the realm of possibility her hormones got in the way of her good sense.”

“She didn't run off with someone,” Gladio said fiercely. “I know her, Iggy. You do, too. She wouldn't do that.”

Ignis sighed. “Are you suggesting I open up a homicide case file for her? Do you have reason to believe she's no longer with us?”

That thought brought tears to Gladio's eyes. He didn't want to believe Iris was dead. He wished he could believe she was somewhere safe and happy, that she'd run away with a boy the family wouldn't approve of and was too afraid of her father's reprimand to come home. But even if that was the case, the Iris he knew would at least write, and there hadn't been a single letter home.  

“If she was still alive, she would have let us know by now,” Gladio said. “That's a fact.”

Ignis said nothing, but watched Gladio with calm but sympathetic green eyes. His hands remained templed under his chin, the tips of his index fingers pressed to soft, full lips.

“You understand it isn't that easy,” Ignis said. “Homicide requires a body. As of yet, Iris hasn't been found, one way or the other.”

“Come on, Iggy, I'm begging you,” Gladio said. “Help me. I need to know.”

Ignis remained a pillar of calm, unflappable even when the case involved someone he knew and cared about.

“I can't live with not knowing,” Gladio said. “It's killing me.”

Ignis sipped his coffee, his gaze far away. Gladio awaited his response, every muscle tense, and on the verge of breaking down.

“I'll have a look at the case file,” Ignis said. “But, I'm mired in an exceptionally difficult case of my own at present. I'm not sure I'll be able to tell you anything you don't already know or come up with any other information that could help. It's been three months, Gladio. The trail has likely grown cold.”

Gladio dropped his gaze to his lap and willed himself not to cry. He was a grown man, an Amicitia. A family known for stoicism and strength. They didn't show their emotions in public.

Ignis was an old friend, practically a brother. Iris was practically a sister to Ignis. Iggy was the one that taught Iris to count and the one who sparked her interest in stargazing, the one who fretted when she skinned her knees, and introduced her to exotic foods. They were _family_.

“I'm as worried as you are,” Ignis said. “I'll look into it. I can't promise I'll find anything.”

“Thanks,” Gladio said. “You know I wouldn't ask if I thought-”

“I know,” Ignis said. “I hope you're not right.” 

* * *

 He sat in the tub and watched the strange man pace around him. The _Creator_ , he said. A doctor.

That was all he understood, though the Creator continued to talk. Words slipped by him like wisps of smoke, as unintelligible as the chatter of a woodchuck, though how he knew what a woodchuck was, he didn't know.

There were no memories of anything before this. There was _only_ this. This room and the bath he sat in, full of a strangely viscous substance that was not water but the exact temperature of his skin. This Creator and his barrage of words and self-congratulatory gestures. Only this.

“I shall call you Thirteen,” the Creator said.

Thirteen wasn't his name. How he knew that was as big a mystery as the knowledge that woodchucks and water existed, but he had to be called something. Things needed names, and without any sense of who he was or where he came from, Thirteen was good enough for now.

“You have no idea of the trials I've been through to make this happen,” the Creator said. “You, my love, are the fruit of that labor. Do you understand how important that is?”

Thirteen shook his head.

“I have conquered death!” the Creator said and threw his hands in the air. “I have done something no one on this earth has managed to do!”

Death. Thirteen knew what that word meant. How it applied to him, he wasn't sure.

“Come now, let's get you clean and I'll examine your motor functions,” the creator said. “I must document everything. It's quite important to have proof that I, Ardyn Izunia, am not a quack, as my wretched family so likes to call me.”

“Family?” Thirteen croaked. It was barely a whisper.

“Yes, yes,” the Creator said. He grasped Thirteen's upper arms and tugged him to his feet. “They're all a bunch of small-minded imbeciles. More money than brains.”

Thirteen's legs felt like jelly and they wobbled as the Creator placed him on his feet beside the tub. Fluid dripped down his body and he shivered in the cool air. The Creator paid no attention. He kept talking at Thirteen, his words almost gibberish to Thirteen's ears.

He cringed as the Creator lifted him and laid him on a cold metal table and switched on an impossibly bright light. It was like staring directly at the sun.

The sun. Thirteen remembered that. And sunsets. Bands of gold and orange and pink. Paint in jars and the caustic scent of turpentine.

The Creator's hands slid over his bare skin and Thirteen cringed under his touch. It felt wrong somehow. Wrong, but also nice. When was the last time anyone touched him? Thirteen couldn't say.

Fingers glided across surgical stitches Thirteen hadn't known were there until now. Ugly, black lines against his chest and down his legs. Freckled skin stitched together like patchwork. Only then did Thirteen grasp that the sensation he felt earlier when he stood for the first time, was pain.

Those dark lines ached and throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the flesh around them tender and bruised, but the Creator paid his discomfort no mind as he examined each and every one with a burning madness in his eyes.

“What a beautiful creature I've made,” the Creator said. “You are truly a work of art.”

Thirteen submitted to a series of tests the doctor explained were for motor function. The only motors Thirteen knew about were the kind found in steam engines and weapons, and he pictured tiny little engines in his joints and muscles and almost laughed at the odd mental image of himself as a machine.

The doctor tested the motion of his joints and took his pulse. Listened to his lungs and shined a light into his eyes, as if the one above wasn't bright enough. Thirteen endured all of this without complaint or comment, unsure of whether or not he should. He closed his eyes and let the doctor do as he pleased.

“Subject Thirteen is in excellent physical condition,” the Creator dictated into a device with a microphone. “Approximately eighteen to twenty years old. Measures 173 centimeters. All limbs intact and fully functional. Though disoriented, the subject responds well to commands...”

Thirteen paid no mind. He let his eyes wander over the various devices in the room, none of which he could identify by name if he tried. All those dials and gauges and wheels and test-tubes made his head spin. What they were for, Thirteen didn't want to know.

“Pulse is 68 beats per minute,” the Creator said. “Respiratory function uncompromised.”

The Creator's hand moved down between his knees and parted his thighs. Thirteen's eyes popped open as that hand moved upward with a gentle, almost sensual caress, to explore his genitals. It wrapped around the base of his cock and squeezed. Thirteen's body responded with both an electric thrill and abject terror.

“Stop,” he croaked and dropped a shaky hand against himself, weak though his attempt at protecting himself was. The Creator did not let go.

“I must determine whether or not your bodily functions are intact,” the Creator said. “It's important to my research to ensure everything works as it should.”

“No.”

The Creator leaned in, his face close to Thirteen's. His dark gold eyes fervent and hot.

“I made you, my little monster,” he said. “You are alive because I made it so. That means I can do with you as I please. Do you understand?”

Then hand around him clenched and Thirteen's hips responded with an involuntary thrust. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, moaned through closed lips, and tried to roll onto his side.

“So, you choose to make this difficult for yourself?” the Creator asked with a heavy sigh. “So be it, then.”

He threw an arm across Thirteen's shoulders and pinned him against the table. Thirteen struggled, but that lingering weakness prevailed. He could barely lift his head on his own.

“Please,” Thirteen squeaked. “Please don't. Please.”

But, the Creator did. He pressed the weight of his upper body into Thirteen and continued on, his hand now stroking the length of Thirteen's cock. Thirteen writhed beneath him as unwanted but pleasurable sensations mounted in his groin. Above him, the Creator smiled.

“Trust me,” he said. His breath was vile.

Thirteen stared at the unwashed strands of oddly colored hair pasted against the Creator's cheeks. At the sheen of sweat on his brow. The two day's worth of stubble on his chin. He'd seen the cruel gleam in the man's eyes before, but he couldn't place where, or what it meant.

“It's all in the name of scientific progress, my little monster,” he said. “All I'm asking is that you help me along the way. Is that so difficult?”

Thirteen knew nothing of scientific progress, nor did he understand where he fit in. He didn't know this man and he didn't know how he got here, or why his body was a horror of stitches and bruises, but maybe it was better to give in. He suspected fighting it would not be the smartest choice.

How he came to that conclusion was another thing he didn't know. What he did know was that he was in too vulnerable a position to put a stop to this, and that he didn't want to find out what might happen if he tried. Though the Creator had been otherwise cordial and friendly, that madness and burning thing in his eyes told Thirteen he was not a man to cross.

Thirteen relaxed into it, uneasy and somewhat humiliated to find himself in a position like this with some strange man, but he stilled beneath the Creator's weight.

Soft pants became gasps, which turned to low moans as Thirteen shut down and gave in. His hips jerked up to meet the Creator's stroking hand, focused only on the mounting pleasure. Climax came on fast and hard, so hard that it almost hurt, and he pulsed in the Creator's grip, his back arched up off the table, and he gave a loud, broken cry to the otherwise silent room.

For several seconds, Thirteen died a small death and lay breathless and immobile on the table. The Creator swabbed his thigh and inserted the sample into a tube full of blue liquid.

“Subject Thirteen displays proper functional response to sexual stimulation,” the Creator said, his voice now clinical and without inflection. “Note that climax was achieved. Samples have been taken to determine viability of the subject's semen.”

Thirteen's cheeks warmed and he closed his eyes against the prickling of tears in the corners of them. As pleasurable as it was, and for as clinical as the Creator's tone now, Thirteen couldn't shake the acute sense of violation he was left with as the Creator continued to poke and prod at his body. Like he was an experiment or something non-human.

After all his reflexes were tested and all his orifices had been examined to the Creator's satisfaction, Thirteen was bathed and dressed in simple clothing. Just a cotton tunic and burlap pants that were both far too large for his frame. The material was stiff and scratch and felt like hell against his sensitive skin.

“Don't you look precious,” the Creator said.

He reached out and caressed the side of Thirteen's cheek tenderly. Thirteen recoiled from the touch, but melted under the compliment. He blinked shyly at the floor and rubbed his hands together as he tried to put words in a coherent order inside his head.

He laid a hand against the surgical stitches on his chest, the top left fork of the Y incision visible below the collar of his shirt.

“...what?” was all he could manage.

“What happened?” the creator asked. He produced a brush and sat behind Thirteen. Bristles combed through Thirteen's hair. “Is that what you want to know?”

“...yeah.”

“You were badly injured,” the creator said. “Left to die.”

The Creator's lips moved close to Thirteen's ear.

“I saved you,” he said. “Do you understand?”

“Saved...” Thirteen murmured. An accident. That was why he remembered nothing. “Who... my name?”

“Your true name is of no consequence, my pet,” the Creator said. “The only thing that matters now is that you belong to me. You must be so grateful, my little monster. For I have given you a precious gift.”

Thirteen knew about gifts. Things that came wrapped in pretty paper and bows. He saw no gifts, no colorful wrappings, no bows. Only this strange, dusty room with its weird contraptions.

The Creator's arms wrapped around him, protective and possessive and Thirteen leaned back into his warmth with a mind full of questions and no way to ask them.

* * *

 Twelve sat in an alley, just off the fish market, hidden behind crates of wheat and sundry. It was dangerous to be about in daylight, but hunger drove Twelve to search out a meal better than the stale crackers and fine liquor stolen from Tummelt's quarters last night.

With shaking hands, still stained dark with blood, Twelve unwrapped a package of sliced meat. That too was stolen. From a housewife who didn't know to keep an eye on her belongings.

Twelve wolfed down the meat, hardly bothering to chew, and chased it down with swallows of liquor.

Done eating, Twelve stood and, with head bowed and hidden beneath a oversized hood, hurried on to the docks. Beneath the fish market was an underground world of peasants and miscreants and wretched souls discarded for reasons beyond their control. Twelve fit in well among them, though it was a far cry from the life of privilege Twelve knew.

_Not my fault. Not my fault. I didn't chose this._

Better not to think of the Creator, or the men who so carelessly brought about an end to Twelve's life. All that did was bring on rage at the injustice, an act of savagery which Twelve had so recently satisfied by utterly destroying one of the names on a rather long list of souls who didn't deserve to breathe any longer.

Twelve settled down into a bed of straw and cast-off linens and uttered a promise to the Creator.

_I will have my revenge._

_Beware, Creator. I'm saving you for last._


End file.
